


express Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death

by ashatasha



Category: AR∀GO ロンドン市警特殊犯罪捜査官 | Arago
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, because i could not handle that, listen im this close to just naming this fic 'fuck me up (fuck me up inside)', nope not at all i could not, this is literally just chapter one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 13:44:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12277758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashatasha/pseuds/ashatasha
Summary: Ewan dies, and Arago lives.





	express Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death

**Author's Note:**

> im a weak ass pansy who cant title things and just grabs lines from poems ive heard of in class, this one is from Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Grief
> 
> apologies for ooc and etc because i've literally only read to chapter 8? i think? and this was written entirely at like 2 am

 

He gets nightmares sometimes.  Fading minutes after he opens his eyes, yet the feeling of terror and guilt and—it haunts him.

 

* * *

 

_“Ewan!”_

 

* * *

 

 

Living in one place and settling in isn’t something he’s done in years.  When he ran off to find his parents’ murderer, he gave up the idea of a stable home and future.  The streets were cold and damp and full of eyes, and he’d quickly learned how to be faster, stronger.  Better at nicking food, at picking a mark, at keeping his mouth shut.  It was normal.  Not exactly easy, but familiar.

 

He sips some juice, huddled in the kitchen with a blanket.  It’s cold here, but it’s not damp.  No constant paranoia of someone finding his hiding place, or snatching his supplies.  There’s a lock and key for the door, and he’s placed a table slightly in the way so that the door can’t be opened from the outside regardless.  He can turn on the heater here if he wants.

 

The apartment remains cold as the sun starts shining through the windows.

 

* * *

 

_“Don’t talk like that!  You’re coming too!”_

 

_Thuds.  A flash of pain shredding through a comforting smile.  Dilated pupils._

 

_“Hide.”_

 

* * *

 

 

Every morning when he slips out to his brother’s grave, the florist across the street will smile and wave.  After the first day of fumbling with cash and hesitantly choosing flowers for the—they’ve taken pity on him.  Gentle hands point out the common choices, and gentle words guide what to put on cards.  He hates the pity, the softness of their eyes, but he needed the help.

 

He doesn’t go there anymore, but all of the workers there still wave to him.

 

Going through trash isn’t anything uncommon or new, so every morning he drops by the alleyway behind the florist and grabs a few withered flowers.  Lilies, roses, anything that he thinks looks particularly elegant.  When he still went into the store, he’d ask for both the withered and the not-yet-budding ones.  It doesn’t really matter, in the end.

 

He still hasn’t decided if the light is a gift or a curse.

 

* * *

 

_“How does it feel?  Using your older brother’s arm.”_

 

_No.  No, no, no no nono—_

 

_“I understand, it’s quite a shock.  But it couldn’t be helped.  I had to do it.”_

 

* * *

 

 

None of his brother’s co-workers like him.  He’s too brash, too clumsy, too aggressive, nothing like his brother.  Whenever they run into him, they smile sympathetically and murmur among themselves.  He can’t bring himself to care.

 

He applies for a job.

 

Someone smiles at him, after most of the paperwork is said and done.  He says something about continuing his brother’s legacy.  As if the dead would care about a legacy.

 

* * *

 

_“If one dies, the other may live.”_

 

* * *

 

 

He gets into the groove.  It’s easy to be the grieving brother left behind, and people make allowances for it.  If he hits a little harder, snarls a little harsher, then no one calls him out on it.  Only tight lips and sympathetic, pitying eyes.

 

It doesn’t last long, though.  Soon people stop smiling and murmuring, and start scowling and scolding him to his face.   _Get over it already_ , they don’t say, but every reprimand and clucked tongue claws at his heels.   _Not good enough_ , they don’t say, but every sneer and disbelieving pursed lip adds a weight to the chain around his neck.

 

Of course he doesn’t clean up his act.  Why should he, when this is who he is?

 

But he listens and notices, and begins to laugh again at every shudder of revulsion and fresh eyes of shock, expectations betrayed.

 

He is not his brother, but he’s alive, and sometime’s that’s enough.

 

* * *

  

 _I wanted the strength to protect you_.

 

* * *

 

 

His nightmares don’t fade, but they’re interspersed with dreams now.

 

A small smile, shining eyes behind lenses.  An outstretched hand ( _“That’s great.”_ ) and an overlapped image of blood.  Idyllic childhood days, relished.  They’ve always understood each other too well and not at all.

 

Ewan would’ve wanted him happy.

 

* * *

 

_“You’re so strong, Arago.”_

 

_“What the hell are you saying at a time like this?”_

 

_Stumbling on aching feet, rubble below.  Ears ringing and hurting.  It doesn’t make sense._

 

_“That wound was my pride.”_

 

* * *

 

 

He’s gotten good enough at manipulating flowers that he arrives with full bouquets now.  He fiddles with a flower as he talks.  It’s the first time he’s actually spoken to Ewan’s grave.

 

“I’m not trying to copy you or anything,” he says aloud.  His hand brushes against the rough cloth of his uniform.  “It’s just that it’s the first thing that came to mind.”

 

* * *

  

_“I entrust my life to you.”_

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> im crying bc there's only like 30ish fics in arago on ao3 and that has to change, please, im dying here
> 
> also if anyone has tips on formatting, that'd be great


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